


I Devour

by worrylesswritemore



Category: Falsettos - Lapine/Finn
Genre: Cheating, Falling In Love, I've already written the whole story so I just have to upload each part, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Secret Relationship, There's a brief mention of conversion therapy in later chapters, WILL UPDATE EVERYDAY, Whizzer is emotionally repressed but so is Marvin, basically leads up to the events of March of the Falsettos, pre-divorce
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-02-23
Packaged: 2018-09-25 23:06:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9850877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/worrylesswritemore/pseuds/worrylesswritemore
Summary: "What they have between them isn't love, but with each passing day, Whizzer's finding it harder and harder to put a name to it." The development of Marvin and Whizzer's relationship pre-divorce.





	1. Isn't It Delightful Playin' Easy?

"Hello, welcome to Men's Fashion Emporium. My name is Whizzer. How may I help you?" Whizzer has to make the conscious decision not to grit his teeth as he muddles through the whole spiel, smiling like he isn't currently wishing for the sweet release of death right now.

The old woman laughs, " _Whizzer,_ is it? Oh my, your generation's names are beyond my time!" Clearly not recognizing the heavy insincerity in his voice, she rummages inside her purse, "Actually, I'm here for your twenty-percent off sale. My husband’s birthday is coming up."

"Well, everything on clearance is on the very far back left. Just keep walking that way until you see the mannequin wearing the green turtleneck and brown slacks." 

"Oh, what a sweetheart. Thank you!" The old woman flashes him a smile before hobbling off in the complete _opposite_ direction he pointed, though Whizzer doesn't care enough to correct her. Releasing the exasperated sigh that's been building inside him since two o'clock today, he checks his watch again and ponders if this added paycheck is worth wasting his time over.

"Long day?" Whizzer turns to find a slightly older man staring at him, a crooked grin etched into his features. 

Whizzer shrugs, "I've only thought about choking myself with a silk neck scarf three times today, so it hasn't been so bad." It's not that he hates fashion (just the opposite) or even that he hates people (which isn't necessarily true either). It's the stillness that he hates; the lack of excitement and motion that causes a dull throb to pulse through his body. 

The man chuckles, "Well, it's not a real job unless you continually toy with the idea of suicide." _Just what I need,_ Whizzer sneers silently to himself, _useless small talk with Mr. All-American Dad._

"Can I help you find something?" Whizzer asks pointedly.

"Ah, yes, if it's not too much trouble. Apparently I'm in need of a suit that isn't drek." The man motions to his own loose-fitted, wrinkled attire. Though his fashion sense is, well, _nonexistent,_ Whizzer can't help but admit that he is a little handsome—in a goofy, pencil-pushing sort of way, he supposes. Not really his type, but given that Whizzer is currently bored as shit, he's not opposed to some eye candy.

Whizzer snorts, "Well, that pretty much goes without saying."

The man rakes his eyes over Whizzer's body, trying but failing to hide how his gaze pauses at the exposed planes of Whizzer's skin. _Oh._ Well, this made everything a whole lot more interesting.

The man clears his throat, averting his gaze, "You seem to, ah, have some taste. Would you mind helping me?" 

Whizzer smirks, "Well, it is what they're paying me for. Follow me, Mr...?"

"Marvin." The man supplies, offering a hand.

Whizzer takes it, idly wondering how that hand would feel pressing him against a wall, "Whizzer Brown."

When he turns and leads the way, Whizzer knows he isn't imagining Marvin's hungry gaze on his ass. 

:: - ::

Whizzer isn't expecting that much. The guy is definitely queer (if he had a nickel for every time he caught Marvin glancing at his ass, he wouldn't have to be working this part-time gig), but Whizzer doesn't fail to notice the very prominent ring on his finger. Whizzer likes to have a good time, but no conquest is worth getting involved in a man's angst-ridden sexuality crisis. So maybe it's out of boredom that Whizzer even tries anything as he rings Marvin up.

"Thanks for your help, Whizzer." Marvin says, flashing him a smile that probably brought girls to their knees at one time. For Whizzer, it just makes him want to slap the arrogance off of his smug face.

"No problem. Five dollars and twenty-nine cents is your change." After he drops the money in Marvin's palm, Whizzer grabs his wrist and jerks him forward. Marvin startles at the sudden contact, wide eyes bright and searching the cashier's face for answers. Teasingly, Whizzer drags his tongue across his bottom lip, smirking at how Marvin closely follows the motion.

"I've got to say, Marvin," Whizzer leans in, lowering his voice, "Last time a guy looked at me like that, I blew him in the dressing room of Macy's." He pulls away slightly, enjoying how Marvin's body stills and tenses at his words, "But I don't screw when I'm working. Come back at eight when my shift is over, and then we'll _talk_."      

He almost laughs at the comical expression of shock that dawns on Marvin's face, but he manages to maintain his composure even as the other man stumbles and trips over his words. Marvin nearly runs out of the outlet store at that point, but Whizzer isn't bothered by the obvious rejection. In fact, the image of such staunch repression is enough to lift his mood for the rest of the evening.

He forgets about what he even said to Marvin until he sees the man strolling back into the store a few hours later. Whizzer masks his initial surprise and walks over to him, smirking slightly as he says, "Excuse me, Sir, but we close at eight."

To his credit, Marvin is far from discouraged, seeming to have lost all previous nerves as he meets Whizzer's steady gaze and says, "I know. Is anyone else here?"

"No, they left about twenty minutes ago. It's my turn to close up for the night," Whizzer explains, sliding past him to flip the open sign and lock the door. Whizzer barely latches the lock before Marvin is on him, pressing him against the wall and kissing him.

In all honesty, he expected maybe a meek hand-job at most, but this—Marvin shoving him against the plaster, a hand firmly knotted in his once immaculately styled hair—isn't so bad. Yeah, he can work with this.

:: - ::

"When can I see you again?" Not _can I_ , Whizzer notices, but _when._ Though he wants to give him hell for the presumption, he's too sore and sated to really give that much of a damn.

"I don't actually work here full-time. I only pick up shifts when my own business is slow. But," He grabs a pen from the counter and writes his address on Marvin's palm, silently amused at how he'll explain it to his wife, "Find your way to my door, and maybe we can work something out." Marvin tries to kiss him goodbye, but Whizzer shoves him away and laughs in his face.

"I'm not your wife, Marvin."

"Trust me, I know." 

When they go their separate ways, Whizzer expects to see him again maybe once or twice before they get tired of each other. Whizzer (unlike Marvin, he later discovers) is not afraid to admit when he is wrong, and this is definitely one of those times.


	2. I Hate His Food

What starts out as screwing a couple times a month quickly evolves into screwing a couple times a _week_. Soon Whizzer and Marvin form a rapport between them that isn't healthy in the slightest (but hey, nothing _fun_ ever is). When they're not screwing, they're most likely fighting, tossing cheap insults and names at each other that land like fists. Marvin calls him cheap, Whizzer calls him crazy. Whizzer pushes him away, Marvin shoves him against a wall. Marvin scratches, Whizzer bites. Their relationship is a ticking time bomb, but Whizzer can't help but just sit and watch the time dwindle.

Occasionally, they talk. Marvin tells him about his job, which pays a lot but is about as exciting as watching paint dry. Whizzer is privy to funny anecdotes and vapid gossip around Marvin's office, his head filled with knowledge of people that he will never meet. In return, Whizzer talks about his passions and hobbies. He explains various fashion concepts, most of which Marvin just nods passively along without the slightest comprehension. When Marvin shows interest in one of his cameras, Whizzer explains simple photography techniques and styles. (Very rarely, Marvin talks about his home life. Whizzer knows that he has a wife and son, both of which he has a strained relationship with. Whizzer doesn't tell him that his fractured home life is probably entirely Marvin's own doing). Their conversations are usually light and lack real sustenance, but Whizzer doesn't mind. It's a nice reprieve from the headache Marvin often gives him.

Tonight, Marvin is too exhausted from work and Whizzer is still shaking off a hangover, so they only make out on the couch for an hour or so. Afterwards, Marvin lounges on the recliner of Whizzer's apartment, thumbing through some portrait shots that a family paid him to shoot today.

"Is this the only photography you do?"

"No, I do weddings, birthdays, graduations—"

"That's not what I meant," Marvin interjects, "I mean, like, do you only take pictures for work?"

"Oh," Whizzer shakes his head, "No, I take other pictures. Not with that camera though. The film's way too expensive." He walks over to his dresser and shows Marvin the cheap Polaroid, "I use this one for recreational."

"Hm," Marvin hums, "Can I see some?" Whizzer blinks, thrown by the question, but Marvin misreads his hesitation.

"What, is it only other naked men?" He teases, pouting slightly, "How come you haven't asked me to pose yet?"

"No, that's not it." He responds, not really understanding himself why he's so reluctant. It’s true that not a lot of people have seen his personal work, but it's not because Whizzer was a snob about it or anything. It's just...Well, no one's ever really asked.

"Well?" Marvin prompts, and Whizzer snaps out of his daze. Forgoing a reply, Whizzer retrieves the old shoe box from under his bed. He drops it in Marvin's lap and pretends to look disinterested as the older man flips through the mountain of Polaroids. Whizzer knows there's nothing really special about them to a stranger's eye. A fuzzy snapshot of a baseball player mid-throw. A grainy picture of the blue sky, distant birds soaring through the air. A couple of the gay scene, people laughing and dancing and finally feeling glad to be alive for once in their lives. Each photograph captures life in its purest form, raw and blurry and real. The stories that are held in every photo will never be fully understood by anyone other than the man behind the camera. 

"Whizzer, these are good," Marvin compliments softly, and it's the way his brow furrows with focus and his hands hold each photo with reverence that makes Whizzer actually believe him.

"I know." Whizzer quips, refusing to acknowledge how his praise has warmed him.

"They're different than the ones you see in magazines." He continues, prompting a scornful scoff from the other man.

"Those are dull, boring, _still_ ," Whizzer answers heatedly, gently taking the box from Marvin's hands and returning it to its original place, "I like to capture _moments,_ not subjects. Pictures should tell a story—be a representation of _life._ And life is anything _but_ still."

Marvin laughs, rising from his chair and kissing Whizzer's cheek, "I've never seen you this passionate outside of bed." Whizzer hums and slings his arms around Marvin's shoulders, kissing him deeply in a way that makes Marvin melt against him. They sort of stop talking for a little while after that, but when they're lying in bed, Marvin laughing at some inane comment that Whizzer made, the younger man doesn't hesitate to grab the Polaroid and snap a picture. Marvin's a little confused and dazed at first, but Whizzer distracts him before he can press the issue. Later, after Marvin has left, Whizzer admires the photo of a shirtless man caught in the middle of a laugh. His bright eyes are directly looking into the camera, but it's the photographer that he's really smiling at. Whizzer bites his lip, pondering for a second, and scribbles on the back of the snapshot:  _He's sweet when he wants to be._

Whizzer tries to fall asleep in a cold bed and wonders what Marvin would say if he asked him to stay the night once.

:: - ::

"Is it good?" Whizzer asks, feigning ignorance.

Marvin tries (too late) to school his features and nods enthusiastically, "Yeah, it's great." He hates it. There's no denying that he hates it, but Whizzer appreciates the gesture nonetheless. Whizzer chuckles, walking over to Marvin and sitting on his lap, "But I take it you didn't come here for the food." Marvin looks relieved for the distraction, and Whizzer tries not to be too offended. After all, It's not like he's some housewife. Hell, it's not like he's _Marvin's_ housewife.

Suddenly, he wonders what Marvin's wife is like. Is she mean like Whizzer is? Does she provoke Marvin like Whizzer does? Or is she sweet? Does she kiss him goodbye? Does she rub his back and serve him good, warm food? Does she love him? Does any of it even _matter_? Usually, it's at this point that Whizzer shuts down this line of thought, never quite sure why he thought of any of this at all in the first place.

"Good night," Marvin says later, swooping in for a kiss he knows that Whizzer will duck every time. Whizzer waves him off and shuts the door, fighting the smile that wants to dawn his face.

:: - ::

"Tell me about a memory." Whizzer drawls out leisurely, head resting comfortably against Marvin's bare chest. It's a game they've been playing more often recently when both are bored and just want to talk to fill the silence.

"Okay," Marvin pauses, contemplating, before he continues, "My senior year of high school—"

"Which was what, fifty years ago?" 

"Hey, you wanna hear my story or do you want to be an asshole?"

"Is both an option?" At Marvin's flick of his head, Whizzer relents, "Okay, okay. I'll shut up. Go on."

"I was on the varsity football team. We were in the middle of a really close game, twenty-eight to thirty-one, and the other team was winning. A field goal would tie us, but our guys were beat, so I knew we wouldn't win if we went into overtime. So, rather than listen to the coach, I decided to try to drive the ball one more time. And I managed to find an opening with Bill Harmon, and I threw the ball to him. He made the touchdown, and we won. I was treated like a god after that."

Whizzer snorts, "Figures you were a jock."

Marvin chuckles and nudges his shoulder, "Your turn."

"Okay," Whizzer sighs, "Um, when I was twelve, my family was vacationing in Paris, and we stopped at this weird shop that only sold candles and white chocolate for some reason? I don't remember why, but I was scared shitless from the moment I entered the store. It smelled like old perfume and baby wipes, and I actually made my mom stand outside with me while my dad and brother looked around more. The shop-owner apparently took my dad aside and asked how much he would sell me for, but I think he just told me that to screw with me. Still though, I wouldn't put it past the old hag. She looked like she picked her teeth with the backbones of babies."

Marvin is silent for a moment before responding, "You vacationed in Paris?"

"I just told you I was almost sold into child slavery, and you focus on that part of the story?"

"Sorry, I'm just amazed that your old stories usually have an exotic backdrop." Marvin defends, "And besides, if you're so rich, why do you live in such a shitty apartment?"

"My parents are rich," Whizzer corrects icily, "Besides, they don't give a damn about me. They'd give their entire fortune away rather than spare me a dime."

"Why's that?"

He shrugs, injecting total indifference in his voice, "They never approved of anything I did. I was _supposed_ to be a doctor. They were understandably not thrilled with my choice to pursue photography." He pauses, "And you know, they didn't like that I was queer either."

"You told them?"

"They caught me with a neighbor kid when I was nineteen," Whizzer explains, shrugging, "I've been on my own ever since."

The silence is heavy in the room before Marvin finally utters, "That's shit."

Whizzer laughs, relieved he didn't mutter the usual pitying _"I'm so sorry,"_ remark that he's heard all too often, "Yeah, it is shit."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Whizzer has dinner with Marvin's family. Also, dick jokes.   
> Thank you for the support! Remember that I appreciate every form of feedback such as kudos, bookmarks, and comments!


	3. He Hates My Wife

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Overall, I'm happy with this chapter, but I'm a little iffy on my characterization of Trina (so if she seems a little off, just know that I tried to make her as in character as possible). Also, I know that the last two chapters have been kinda short, so I hope this extra long installment (which is essentially longer than both previous chapters combined) make up for that. Anyway, enjoy!

"I hate your wife." Whizzer remarks casually one evening as Marvin slips his pants back on.

Marvin scoffs, "Jealous?"

Whizzer rolls his eyes, "Of who? A sexually-depraved housewife that pumps vodka shots all day and pretends her husband disinterestedly thrusting into her once a month is satisfying?"

Marvin's mouth twists, but he doesn't engage him in another fight. Whizzer's a little disappointed, but they both know that if they start fighting again, Marvin won't make it home at all tonight.

Whizzer picks up Marvin's discarded tie from the floor and laces it around his neck, knotting and tightening it to the point of cutting off circulation, "I hate her because she keeps you from me. If it weren't for her, I wouldn't have to _schedule_ a time to screw you."

Marvin smiles, "I know. I can't help that I'm in such high demand."

"Oh, get over yourself," Whizzer groans, shoving him away and collapsing back on the bed, "And leave already, won't you! I got bored of you half an hour ago."

"I'm trying," Marvin murmurs lowly (and okay, _maybe_ Whizzer is preening and arching on the mattress a _little_ under his low-lidded gaze), "But you're making it a little hard."

Whizzer looks down at Marvin's crotch and laughs, sneering, "Only a little?"

:: - ::

Whizzer squints at the messy scrawl of ingredients listed on the piece of paper. He doesn't understand half the words on the list, but it's not like he can ask Marvin (that would kinda ruin the whole point).

"You are Whizzer Brown. You can do this." He mumbles assurances to himself, forgetting how crazy he probably looks in the middle of the grocery store.

"I'm sorry," A woman interjects, "Did you say your name is Whizzer Brown?"

"Yes," He answers, brow furrowing, "Can I help you?" 

"This may sound like a strange question," The woman begins, looking slightly flustered, "But you don't happen to know a man named Marvin perhaps?"

Whizzer nods, "Yeah, I do. Again, can I help you?"

"What a coincidence meeting you here! I'm Trina." She says brightly, as if that answers his question. At his blank look, her expression falters, "Marvin's wife? I'm sure he's mentioned me."

"Oh!" It's like a bolt of lightning shoots through his body, "Yes, yes, I'm sorry. You caught me off guard."

Trina laughs, though her face has lost some of its earlier glow, "It's alright. You know, Whizzer Brown, I was starting to suspect you weren't real. I thought my husband was just making excuses to get out of the house." Her voice is flippant, but there's unmistakable pain in her eyes as she admits this. Whizzer nods along vaguely and quickly tries to think of a way to excuse himself out of this conversation. Though he's often wondered about Marvin's wife, Whizzer doesn't know if he'd had ever wanted to actually _meet_ her. After all, how is he supposed to hold a conversation when all he can think of is how they've both seen and held the same dick?

"Well, here am I in the flesh," Whizzer replies, already starting to inch his cart away, "Well, it was nice to meet you."

"You should come over for dinner tomorrow night," Trina proposes suddenly, "After all, I'd love to properly spend time with the man practically stealing my husband away from me." She laughs at the jest. Whizzer doesn't.

Marvin would want him to refuse. The _last thing_ Marvin would want, in fact, would be Whizzer to accept Trina's invitation. So that's probably why he says: "That sounds like a wonderful idea. What time?" 

"Five o'clock." Trina answers, beaming. Whizzer smiles back at her, wondering if she feels as frazzled, nervous, and overall unhappy as she looks.

"I'll see you then." Before he can move away, she stops his cart, looking curiously at one of the items, "Where did you find that garlic powder? I've been looking all over this damn store for it."

"I think I found it on aisle three."

"Oh, thank you! It's the last thing I need." She fretfully checks her watch, "Dammit, I can't believe I put this off to the last minute. Marvin will be getting off of work soon."

"What are you cooking?" Whizzer asks politely.

"Holishkes," She answers, causing Whizzer's stomach to drop, "It's Marvin's favorite. He told me that he's been craving it lately."

"Oh, really?" Whizzer says plainly, his voice sounding oddly distant and hollow in his ears, "Here then. You can take mine."

"Oh no, I couldn't—" 

"No, I insist," Whizzer smiles, an indistinct sour taste in his mouth, "You have a whole family to provide for. Besides, I can just go grab another real easy. I'm in no hurry."

"If you're sure..." At Whizzer's encouraging nod, she takes the garlic powder and smiles at him, "You know, I can already tell you and I will get along just fine. See you at dinner later, yeah?"

"Can't wait." Whizzer smiles brightly, only dropping back into a frown as soon as she leaves his line of sight. Abruptly, he abandons the rest of his cart and ends up just buying a box of cheap wine.

Later, when Marvin walks into his apartment and asks, "So? What's the big surprise that you couldn't tell me about?" Whizzer smiles wryly and holds out a half-empty box of wine in response.

Marvin rolls his eyes, "Oh wow, you shouldn't have." He takes it anyway and downs a third of it in one big gulp. Idly, Whizzer can't help but wonder if he kisses Marvin now whether he would taste the garlic powder.

"Anything exciting happen today?" Marvin asks before taking another gulp.

"I met your wife," As Marvin explodes into a coughing fit and tries to catch his breath, Whizzer adds, "She invited me to dinner tomorrow. Isn't that nice?"

:: - ::

"Whizzer!" Trina exclaims as she opens the door, "You're right on time. Come in!" Whizzer flashes her a grin as he takes in his surroundings. The house isn't a mansion by any means, but it's a hell of a lot bigger than his own apartment; not to mention it’s also a hell of a lot _cleaner_ than his place, its heavily polished surfaces glowing under the harsh fluorescent lighting. 

As Trina leads Marvin to the dining room, Whizzer's eyes linger on the family portraits that decorate the walls: a little boy covered in dirt with a shit-eating grin on his face; Marvin pushing the little boy on a swing set; Trina and the boy, hugging and cheesy smiling into the camera; and finally an older picture of a much younger Marvin and Trina, smiling at each other as they stand at the altar. The latter of which gives Whizzer the most pause, a tight knot forming in the pit of his stomach.

When they enter the kitchen, he sees that Marvin is seated at the head of the table, looking tense and miserable with a glass of whisky in his hand. A young boy, older than the one in the photos but clearly the same person, is seated beside him, looking disinterested. 

"Marvin," Whizzer greets with a nod (Marvin glares at him, mumbling a spiteful, _"Whizzer,"_ in response) and looks over at the boy, "And you must be Jason. It's good to meet you."

"Hi," Jason says, "Is Whizzer your real name? It doesn't sound like a name at all."

Whizzer laughs, "No, it's not. It's a nickname, but I prefer Whizzer."

The boy smiles, "Yeah, I like it too. Mom, can I have a nickname? Something cool like, um…like  _Jaguar!_ "

"Ask your father." Trina replies tiredly, leaving the room to fetch the food.

"Dad, can I—"

"No," Marvin interrupts curtly, downing the last of his drink.

"What he means," Whizzer continues, noticing how Jason's face had fallen and trying to remedy the situation, "Is that you can't give yourself a nickname. Other people have to."

"Yeah, sure." Jason mumbles, glaring at Marvin nonetheless.

"Dinner is ready!" Trina sings with faux-cheerfulness, though she stumbles on the end of the rug and almost sends the baked chicken clattering to the ground. Luckily, however, Marvin seemed to be paying enough attention to jump and catch it before it fell.

"Oh, thank you, Darling." Trina breathes out a sigh of relief.

Whizzer smirks, adding pointedly, "Yeah, I had no idea you could _catch."_

Marvin shoots Whizzer a dirty look, but Trina and Jason remain oblivious. Ignoring the jab, he sets the chicken down on the table and then looks expectantly at his wife. Like a trained pet, Trina jumps into action, cutting a leg and thigh off the bone and serving it on his plate. Trina does the same for Jason, and then she asks, "Whizzer, do you like white or dark meat?"

Whizzer debates his response before ultimately deciding  _no way, that's too easy._ Instead, he stands and takes the knife from her hand, "Thank you, Trina, but I can cut my own. I'll cut yours too, if you'd like."

Thrown by any offer of help, Trina just stares at him before saying uncertainly, "Um, I would like a wing, if that's alright. I mean, I can serve—"

"I insist," Whizzer charms, laying the meat delicately on her plate before cutting his own, "I cook for Marvin enough that I'm used to this."

"Do you?" Trina asks, shocked at the information.

"He's not as good of a cook as you are, Sweetheart." Marvin deflects, shooting Whizzer a warning glare before smiling sweetly at his wife.

"Funny, you seem to like my sausage just fine." He throws back icily, relishing how the muscles in Marvin's jaw pop.

"Oh yeah, his polish sausage that he cooks is, um, wonderful. You should try it sometime. It's good." Marvin fumbles with the quick (and frankly unnecessary) explanation, pouring himself another unhealthy glass.

They eat in relative silence for a few minutes before Trina probes, "So, Whizzer, do you have a wife?"

Unable to help himself, Whizzer laughs, "No, I don't."

"Oh, that's a shame," Trina consoles, "You're very charming. I bet you have your pick of any lucky lady in the world."

"Well, not to brag, but I have dated a few queens in my time." Whizzer jests, and this even causes Marvin to try to hide a surprised chuckle with a cough.

"Are you okay, Marv?" His wife asks in concern, lightly touching his arm.

"Yeah, don't choke on the cock, _Marv._ " Whizzer says innocently, hiding his grin by taking a sip of his water.

"I'm fine," Marvin declares tightly, keeping his gaze downcast and aggressively stabbing his meat with his fork, "So Jason, how was school today?" The conversation centers around Jason for the rest of the meal, though Whizzer still throws a double-entendre in every once in awhile just to see Marvin jump.

"Well, it was wonderful to have you over, Whizzer," Trina gushes, looking almost incredulous as the man helps her clean up the table after the meal, "I see why my husband likes you." _Can you now,_ Whizzer wants to snipe, but he bites his tongue.

Instead, he says, "I had a fun time, too. You know, Trina," He discretely looks around, noticing that Marvin and Jason have left the room, "You're way too good for Marvin."

Trina snorts, and her expression suddenly drops its superficiality, exposing its genuine sourness and bitterness, "No, I think we're both well-suited in our misery."

And quite abruptly, Whizzer realizes he doesn't hate her. He wants to—desperately wants to vilify her as the crazy, desperate housewife that despises fairies like him. Quite suddenly, he wants to tell her that he's gay, just to see how she would react. Would she treat him differently? 

But that's a stupid question. Of course she would; everyone always does.

So instead, he gives her a tight smile and excuses himself, walking into the living room where Marvin is already waiting for him with his old coat.

"You need a new one," Marvin remarks absently, gesturing to the beaten up jacket, "You'll catch a cold."

"Buy me one." Whizzer shoots back, already knowing that by tomorrow, Marvin will have left one on his kitchen counter.

"You need to learn to be a little bit more discrete." Marvin scolds lowly as Whizzer shrugs on his coat.

"You need to learn to be a little bit more attentive to your wife," He counters, "If you're getting your rocks off with another guy, the least you could do is buy her flowers every once in awhile."

"Whizzer, are you leaving?" Jason asks, walking into the room.

"Yeah, the Yankees are scheduled to play soon." Whizzer admits, noticing how Jason immediately perks up.

"You like baseball?"

"I _love_ baseball."

"Uh oh. You should go before Jason holds you captive here for another three hours," Marvin advises, practically pushing Whizzer out of the house, "Say goodbye."

"Oh, come on, Dad!" Jason whines, eliciting a laugh from Whizzer.

"It's quite alright. We'll talk later. Goodbye, Jason." Whizzer says, waving as Marvin quickly closes the door.

He thinks about their portrait family photo later that evening, musing over the clear inaccuracy of their happy faces.

:: - ::

Whizzer thought that meeting Marvin's family would change something—maybe Marvin and his relationship would take a nosedive due to the sheer awkwardness of the new circumstances, or maybe Trina and Jason's innocent and oblivious faces would finally awaken Whizzer's sense of decency that has been dormant for years. However, he is surprised to admit that things have stayed more or less the same. Marvin still visits his apartment with increasing frequency, he and Whizzer still fight like cats and dogs, and Marvin's family still remains oblivious to the entire situation. The only aspect that's changed is that Marvin's family is no longer a distant, abstract concept that Whizzer can push to the back of his mind and forget their tangibility. Now, Whizzer occasionally stays for dinner before he and Marvin leave and screw in his car a few blocks away. Now, it's _Whizzer_ who takes Jason to a local baseball game every other week rather than his disinterested parents. Now, Whizzer has assumed the role of Friend of the Family rather than just Friend of Marvin's like he was before. It's a slight but prominent change in Whizzer's life, and he hasn't decided if it's one for the better (Hell, the jury's still out if meeting _Marvin_ was for the better). 

"I think my parents are going to get a divorce." Jason confesses one day at the ballpark, casually taking a bite out of his hotdog.

"Why do you say that?" Whizzer questions, watching as a storm of emotions showcase on the boy's young face.

"They fight all the time. Dad's gone a lot," Jason lets out an exasperated sigh, "I know he's your friend and all, but my dad's a _prick_."

"I am your dad's friend," Whizzer concedes, bumping Jason's shoulder, "But I agree. He is a _major_ prick."

"Then why do you hang out with him all the time?" Jason asks, "I mean, Mom and I are sorta stuck with him, but you can just leave any time you want." Whizzer doesn't answer for a long time, mulling over Jason's words. Why hasn't he left? Is it the sex? Is it the gifts? Or is it Marvin himself? Whizzer can't deny that he has become attached to the man, but does that really mean anything? Does it mean anything to _Marvin?_

"I like your dad," Whizzer answers honestly, "He's a pain in the ass, but he's not so bad; well, not all the time anyway." Jason shrugs and stares vacantly out at the baseball diamond. Whizzer finally notices that he never answered Jason's question.

"Your parents will not get a divorce," Whizzer reassures him, "Your dad would never let that happen." And he knows this for certain. Appearances mean too much to Marvin. He would rather die than lose his pride.

Jason nods and smiles sadly, "Okay." They resume their usual banter as they watch the rest of the game, but Whizzer is more distant than before. Because _finally_ , after months and months of playing this dangerous game, he feels it.

_Guilt._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHH! Can you believe tomorrow is the last chapter?! I'm hyped but also kinda sad that the story is ending so soon. The support has been great, so thanks for sticking around.  
> Next chapter: "I caught them in the den with Marvin grabbing Whizzer's ass."


	4. Yes, Whizzer Brown, I Care

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The LAST CHAPTER!! This is also the chapter that has the most angst, but it pays off in the end (I swear). I'm so grateful for all of the support with this story. I had fun writing it and am kinda depressed that it's over now.

"It's cold as shit in here." Marvin curses as he shuts the door behind him. 

Whizzer gestures to the bottle of Scotch in his hand, "This'll warm you up."

"Do you want me to talk to your landlord?" Marvin asks, "I mean, this is ridiculous. Probably illegal, too. I swear I can—"

"Marvin, he already said he's trying to get the vents working again," Whizzer reminds him tiredly, "It'll be another month, if that."

"It'll be spring by that time." Marvin counters, causing Whizzer to shrug in defeat.

"I've lasted this long." 

Marvin throws his hands up in mock-surrender before flopping down on the couch and beckoning Whizzer with a pat on his thigh. Rolling his eyes, Whizzer slides into his lap and puts the bottle of Scotch to Marvin's lips. He takes a big swig and then buries his cold face in Whizzer's neck, prompting a yelp of surprise from the younger man.

"Asshole." Whizzer roughly pushes his face away, "You're going to give me frostbite."

"I wonder what we could do to warm up," His cold fingers dip below the waistline of his pants, making Whizzer shudder and laugh, "Can you think of anything?"

Whizzer smiles and gives him a dry smack on his lips, "Let me see...Nope." Ignoring Marvin's protest, Whizzer stands up and goes to the other side of the room, turning the radio on and flipping through the stations until finally settling for Bee Gees.

"Who do I have to blow to hear some ABBA—" He stops suddenly, staring with wide eyes at the dozen rolls of film in Marvin's now opened suitcase.

"I know how you said that you don't use your best one because the film is too much money," Marvin explains, shrugging, "So, I thought this could be a birthday present, either early or late because you still refuse to tell me when it is." 

When Whizzer fails to respond, Marvin clears his throat nervously, "Did I get the right kind? I described what the camera looked like to the lady at the store, and she assured me—"

"Thank you." Whizzer says quietly, tentatively walking toward Marvin and taking the suitcase from his hands. He lays it down gingerly and then looks back up at Marvin. Now, more than ever, he reflects on how little Marvin compares to Whizzer’s previous trysts. He’s a whole lot meaner—that’s for sure—but he’s also sweeter, _kinder,_ than what Whizzer is accustomed to. He doesn’t realize he’s leaning in until his lips meet Marvin’s, ignoring the urge to inject the usual amount of roughness and passion that always accompanies their kisses. Instead, his lips are gentle against the other man’s, his own hand raising in order to rest itself on Marvin’s shoulder. The kiss doesn’t last long and is more or less chaste compared to what they usually encompass, but as Whizzer slowly pulls away, his stomach is twisted in knots.

Marvin looks pleased with himself, beaming with pride, "Well then. Go on."

Whizzer’s ears are still buzzing, so he asks, "What?"

"Take your first picture. I wanna see what it looks like." He quickly looks around the room, "You like movement, right? Do you want me to throw something in the air or—" He's cut off by a flash and finds Whizzer's camera aimed directly at him.

"Oh come on," Marvin pouts, "I didn't get to pose. I probably look ugly."

"Yeah, probably," Whizzer agrees, laughing when Marvin elbows him in the ribs.

"Well? Can I see it?"

"I have to develop it first." Whizzer reminds him, "I'll show you later."

Marvin smiles, and something in Whizzer's chest stirs—

_Oh no._

:: - :: 

After Marvin leaves, Whizzer crawls out of bed, throws on some underwear, and finally has that nervous breakdown he's been suppressing for the last few hours. He rethinks these past few months (that have honestly been more than a few, if he's being honest with himself)—every fight, every push, every shove, every sign of indifference on both of their parts. Most of their interactions are volatile and toxic, Marvin asking for too much and Whizzer not giving enough as it is. Sure, they each have their moments of kindness, but it doesn't change the overall scope of their relationship; or, better yet, it doesn't change their _lack_ of a relationship. After all, Marvin doesn't _love_ him.

And Whizzer could never love someone like Marvin. The man is too boring, too rude, too  _psychotic_ —a needy, neurotic shell of a man that Whizzer doesn't have the time nor the patience to constantly appease. Sure, Marvin can give him a good time when Whizzer is horny and too tired to give a real man a chase, but he's not the dashing heartbreaker that Whizzer will pine over like a schoolboy. This thing between them—while passionate, raw, and dirty—is nowhere near love, but—

But Whizzer would be lying if he said there hasn't been times that his heart skipped a beat when Marvin smiled a certain way that made the already sprouting lines around his eyes deepen. It wouldn't be honest if Whizzer said he didn't like the times Marvin didn't immediately zip up his pants and run back home to his family, instead tossing an arm around Whizzer and laughing breathlessly into his shoulder. And yes,  _maybe_  once or twice Whizzer has felt that deep ache in his chest, an ache not quite so unpleasant, when Marvin kisses his cheek or squeezes his hand.

What they have between them isn't love, but with each passing day, Whizzer's finding it harder and harder to put a name to it.

"Jesus," Whizzer groans, his face buried in his hands, "What am I still doing here?" It's a question he should have been asking months ago. But no, he's passed that question now. He's now in uncharted territory of long-terms and end-games, fighting against the heavy weight of commitment being strapped to his chest.

Because now the question is this: Does he love Marvin? Gun to his head, Whizzer would have to admit that it depends on the day.

"Fuck." Whizzer says to himself alone in a cold, empty room.

:: - ::

Avoiding Marvin, Whizzer discovers, is easier said than done. Because it turns out, Marvin doesn't take rejection very well. Actually, he doesn't take rejection _at all._

His visits to Whizzer's apartment do not decrease even as Whizzer usually kicks him out the second he passes through the threshold (Whizzer has to admit that the instances when Marvin has enough time to shut the door behind him, it ends with them screwing on the living room couch because yeah, okay, Whizzer is _weak._ Sue him). First, Marvin accepted the change with confused submission. When he realized that Whizzer wasn't just pissed and wasn't going to cave eventually, he resulted to aggression, normally just shouting at him (or more like at Whizzer's closed, locked door). Now, he's at the point of pathetic desperation, following him around like a lovesick puppy. 

"What are you doing for Valentine's Day?" Marvin asks him on one of the nights that Whizzer was weak in his resolve and relapsed.

"Getting drunk and screwing guys," Whizzer answers flippantly, "Probably won't be coming home at all that night. Don't wait up." He throws Marvin's clothes at him and shoves him out of his apartment, "Now get out. Go home and screw your wife."

When Marvin finally leaves, Whizzer slides down to the floor and counts the many reasons that shutting Marvin out like this is the best course of action. He gets to about twenty-nine before he gets distracted thinking about the smell of the other man's aftershave and whether it's still on his pillow.

:: - ::

Valentine's Day is more or less a success. He gets off with a couple guys, but none satisfy his hunger for something different, something _more_. He goes home drunk and angry, shivering from the cold but knowing his apartment won't be any warmer. He kinda wants to go bang on his landlord's door and yell at him to fix the fucking vents already. Yeah, that actually sounds like a _great_ idea. 

He's too wasted and angry that he doesn't see the brand new heater in the middle of the living room until he crashes into it, eliciting a string of curses. Whizzer blinks and tentatively touches the device, determining that this is indeed real and not in his imaginary. A note is attached to the heater, and Whizzer has to squint in order to read the messy scrawl of a familiar handwriting:  _Will you be my valentine? XXX_

And this...This doesn't change anything, right? Marvin _still_ has a family. Marvin is _still_ a controlling bastard. Whizzer _still_ doesn't love him. But...

"Okay," Whizzer reasons with himself as he grabs a bottle of water and chugs it, "I am going to sober up, and if it still sounds like a good idea, I'll go." He lasts only about an hour before he can't take it anymore, stumbling the entire way to Marvin's house.

When Marvin opens the door, Whizzer attacks him, grabbing him by his robe and kissing him like his life depends on it. Marvin jolts back, ushering Whizzer inside and hissing, "What the fuck are you doing here? You shouldn't be—Wait a minute, are you _drunk?"_

"A little," Whizzer admits because even though he has sobered up considerably, his ambitions are still severely lowered.

Marvin sighs and beckons him to follow, taking his hand and leading him to the den of the house, "You can sleep it off here. I'll tell Trina; she won't mind. And then tomorrow, we have to talk. You can't just do this, you know. Act like you want me to leave you alone and then come barging into my house drunk—"

"Marvin," Whizzer says somberly before suddenly realizing that he doesn't quite know how to put his internal struggle into words, "Look, I'm—I'm sorry I've been such an ass. It's just—I like you a lot. I mean, I like your penis. And your bank account. And I think I might like you too. I don't know. It's all really confusing, and to be honest, I just really wanna see you naked and on your knees right now."

"Jesus Christ, Whizzer, _keep your voice down._ You'll wake up Trina and Ja—" Whizzer silences him with a kiss, grinning in victory as Marvin sighs into his mouth and finally stops fighting. Whizzer loops his arms around Marvin's neck and shoves a knee between his legs, eliciting a groan from the other man. Forfeiting all sense of resistance, Marvin's hands drift lower and lower until they rest firmly on his ass. Whizzer moans into his mouth and begins to unbuckle his own trousers—

A loud thud on the carpet knocks reality back into both men, leaning away from each other with similar frazzled and confused expression. They both look to the source of the noise and find Trina in nothing but a night gown and pink robe, the horrified expression on her ghostly pale face illuminated by the nearby lamp. Below her, the dampness from the spilled glass of water darkens the bright red carpet, which causes it to assume the color of fresh blood split from a broken heart.

"Trina," Marvin breathes out, his lips and cheeks painted red, "This isn't—"

"Get out of our house." Trina's voice is hard and brittle, like a thick sheet of ice. She is not the meek, nervous housewife that Whizzer has known her as. Right now, she is the very face of Death herself, eyes bright with fire and hands shaking with rage. Her words are directed solely at Whizzer, as if she's not even acknowledging her husband's own part in this. Like an ice cold bucket of reality had been poured on him, Whizzer suddenly realizes how _stupid_ it was to come here in the middle of the night. How _stupid_ it was to come here at all. 

"Trina, I'm so sorry." He says brokenly, regretting the apology as soon as it leaves his lips. It means nothing, even to his own ears. He isn't sorry about destroying her family; he's just sorry that he got caught.

"This is what's going to happen," Trina declares, her voice barely above a whisper, "Whizzer, you are going to leave this house and _never_ come near my family again. Marvin, you are going to come upstairs with me and go to bed. I am going to forget this ever happened and keep this fucking family together _myself_. Now Dammit, Whizzer, _get the fuck out of my house."_

Before he complies with her demand, Whizzer spares one last look at Marvin, knowing deep down that this will be the last time he sees him. Whatever they had—Hell, maybe it was love, maybe it wasn't; none of that matters now—between them is over. Whizzer knows that, and Marvin seems to realize this too. His face is one of devastation, a broken man with a broken heart. He seems to want to reach out to Whizzer, give him some kind of parting gift for the time they shared, but Trina's presence is a daunting cloud of reality. Whizzer ducks his gaze and flees the house, running almost all the way to his apartment.

:: - ::

The next day, Marvin is waiting at his door when Whizzer gets back home from work. A surge of pain overwhelms his chest, but he manages to keep a stoic expression. He averts Marvin's steady gaze and unlocks the door, saying coldly, "I'll give you time to gather up all your stuff."

"Whizzer."

He doesn't answer, pushing the door open and walking straight to the kitchen to pour himself a drink.

"Whizzer." Marvin's voice is quiet but insistent.

"You should be at work," Whizzer notices distantly, "Trina make you take a sick day so you two can go to marriage counseling? I hear that works wonders. Hell, it might even make you straight." Abruptly overcome with another painful memory, he laughs thickly, "You know, my parents hired a shrink to make me straight. It didn't work, but it might be different for you. You actually have motivation."

"Whizzer."

"Please, just—don't say anything," He finally resorts to pleading, his voice losing the feigned indifference, "Just take what you need and leave. I won't bother you anymore. I mean, it's not like we—"

"I left my wife." Marvin interrupts, "I just moved out. I'm divorcing her."

Whizzer just looks at him blankly, "You...what?"

"She wanted to stay together," Marvin tells him, laughing a little but his eyes only hold intense sorrow, "Told me that this ' _phase'_ in our marriage would pass. And I said to her, 'When? We've been in this phase for twelve fucking years.' And then she started to cry, and I asked her if she still loved me. And she said she did, but she wasn't going to let me see you anymore. And I couldn't—" Marvin cuts himself off, struggling for words, "I couldn't handle the thought of that. Of not...seeing you, and fighting with you, and kissing you. I couldn't even imagine it. Fuck, I can't even remember how I lived before you walked into my life."

"What about Jason?" Whizzer asks, suddenly remembering the real unfortunate in this scenario.

Marvin's lips press thinly together, "He'll be fine. He's tough."

Whizzer scrubs a hand through his hair and groans, "Damn, Marvin, what did you just _do?"_

"I chose you." Marvin reminds him with a twinge of bitterness, "You could at least _act_ a little grateful, huh?" And that's when his words finally land, hitting Whizzer like a semi-truck. _He left his wife. He's divorcing her. He's tearing his tight-knit family apart._

_All for me._

Whizzer walks toward him slowly, as if afraid he might disappear, "You know, I'm not one for the whole monogamy kind of thing."

Marvin's expression flickers, "We'll talk about that."

"My cooking is shit."

"We can order out."

Whizzer lays a hand on Marvin's chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart, "Can you imagine us living together? We'll tear each other's throats out."

"We'll adjust." Marvin plants a hand on Whizzer's hip, rubbing soothing circles into his skin.

"We won't last." Whizzer feels compelled to tell him, to make him _understand_ just exactly what they're getting themselves into.

"Maybe not...but it'll be fun though, won't it?" Marvin offers, causing Whizzer to laugh and rest his head on Marvin's shoulder.

"Yeah," Whizzer agrees, "It will be."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I managed to not forget and actually upload everyday! What a feat for me! Anyway, I hope you loved this story as much as I loved writing it. Falsettos has been my recent obsession, so it was great to finally contribute to something that has give me so much inspiration.  
> This is the end of this story, but I am definitely writing more Whizzer/Marvin stories so be on the look out (I hate that there aren't many fics out there in the Falsettos fandom). Goodbye for now!

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos, Bookmarks, and Comments are appreciated! I've already written the entire story, so I'll post the new part tomorrow (there will be four chapters in total). Hope this story improved your day in some capacity!


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